Hayes Family Vacation
Pavones , Costa Rica
March 22, 2008. 
After our single engine plane flies down the Pacific coast from San Jose, Costa Rica almost to Panama, then banks hard over the light blue water of of the Golfo Dulce, and lands at the fishing village of Golfito, we are still not there. The one-armed baggage handler drags our bags to the waiting taxi. Our family boards a Land Rover driven by a friendly driver, and drives two more hours, on pavement, then gravel, across an river ferry, then dirt, to the legendary surf town of Pavones. Here the Pacific waves entering Golfo Dulce wrap around a rocky point, and form a remote , fast, long-peeling left, making Pavones a palm-tree backed scene out of a surfer's dream. The small town setting is a funny mix of rural Ticos and deeply tanned, multi-national, dreadlocked, tattooed, slim surf devotees. Burros carrying flour sacks are tied up at the General Store next to battered cruiser bikes with short boards, and Quads with blond expatriate chica housewives getting groceries. A surf shop and real estate office with signs in English are open on the plaza, but so is a metal roofed, open walled cantina with local disreputables and contractors sharing a cold beer and a view of the break. Visible thru the palms, stretching for several hundred yards, are the peeling wave shapes of the famous rivermouth break. Pavones!
Not for Beginners
Perfect to look at, but challenging and demanding waves. The shore is shingle (rounded cobbles, from bird-egg to grapefruit size), not sand. At low tide, slick ankle-twisting rocks stretch a hundred yards to the water edge and a hundred more shallow steps after you stumble to the water's edge. The afternoon sun is so hot, it burns your skin thru your shirt, thru your sunscreen. Patches of black volcanic sand are super-heated. And the waves, once you reach them, are steep, fast, and coming in sets that can pound anyone caught inside. My son Ben paddles out eagerly and is slammed by his first wave, then dragged across rocks. He surfaces screaming and bleeding, with his knee ripped open. He will be in the hammock or carried in a borrowed wheelbarrow for the next several days before he can walk again. This is no beginners wave.
Meanwhile, an intent lineup of dozens of hard-bodied men and women outside watch each other and the wave sets carefully, jockey for position, and take wave after wave.
The classic Pavones ride: sit outside the rivermouth, find the steepest critical section of an unbroken set wave, make a hard committed paddle, quick athletic drop and immediate left turn, 4-5 board pumps (optional) to build speed, then an exhilarating rush down the line racing the falling wall of water. As a wave section drops in front of you (or on you), the next surfer down the line paddles onto the face and takes off, grabbing the remaining energy. The fallen surfer surfaces from the foam, ducks the remaining waves of the set, then calmly paddles back out into the lineup during a gap in the waves.
Pavones Vacation Rhythm.
Our vacation days fall into a rhythm driven by the tropic sun:
Dawn surf session for Dad (or a jungle river swim with my Jungle Goddess when I can coax her) while kids sleep in.
Retreat to our shady cabin for the heat of mid-day, to play chess and cutthroat family Boggle, read in the hammock, sleep under the ceiling fan, maybe a slow walking excursion to market for beer and snacks, or to the jungle river swimming hole. Sam finds and test pilots the vine swing.
Afternoon activity stirs as sun gets lower: maybe a sunset surf session for Dad, or a terrific outing into the jungle and back on rented horses one afternoon. We are all muscle sore and tired all over.
Walk to dinner at one of 3 local restaurants (Pizza vs Fish-Rice-Beans Casado Plate).
Sit up on the porch with guitar and beers, talking with our Canadian neighbors or playing Boggle, as sleep creeps in.
We get the hang of it just as we have to leave. Walk into town, and iguanas scatter ahead of you, like squirrels in the park, as we walk down the trail to check the surf. A single scarlet macaw, trailing a ridiculous long red tail, sits in an almond tree outside the cantina. Pink dawns and purple sunsets bracket the day. The pony-tailed bartender at the Cantina makes friendly bilingual conversation, watches surfboards for people, calls taxis, and keeps up with his TV soap opera as the afternoon goes by. A group of local men build a stage for the Easter Passion Play on the edge of the soccer field as a couple of Moms with kids arrive on horses from their finca in the hills. By the end of the week we nod and smile to half a dozen regulars on a walk to the market. All too soon we are gone, and replaced by the next batch of surf tourists. 
